Huff, huff, huff …
Timothée’s breath came fast and hot against the plastic ball of the gag wedged deep inside his mouth.
The black satin hood over his head was suffocating, humid with the warmth of his panic …
He couldn’t see, he couldn’t speak, he could only feel; the bite of the leather straps across his wrists and forearms, the squeeze of the shirt collar at his neck - his shoulders ached, his legs were pinned apart at the ankle - immovable, locked in what felt like stocks …
Sweat dampened the cotton clinging to his back and chest, he could sense the edges of the suit he didn’t remember putting on, the slight press of trouser fabric at his thighs - his underwear clung to him, reminding him of his exposure beneath the formal disguise - his toes curled instinctively inside the whisper-thin silk of sheer socks, every movement contained by the firm hug of polished leather loafers - a costume designed by The House of White Feathers, specifically for humiliation …
Whatever he was bound to was moving, rattling, swaying; wheels groaned softly under his weight as he was rolled forward, the vibration of motion echoing up through his body - he strained against the straps, instinctively testing, but the chair, or whatever contraption this was, held him tight …
… He could hear them now.
The crowd; cheering, chanting, a swell of applause that rippled through the cavernous hall like a storm, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the rustle of fabric.
Miller’s voice rose above it all, smooth, confident, a slick mix between velvet and venom …
“… Ladies and gentlemen … Our next contestant! …”
Every instinct in Tim’s body jolted - he could see the man in his mind’s eye without removing the hood - sharp suit, sharper smile, a master of ceremonies in his own twisted kingdom …
“… In last place … With a fucking dismal zero points after saying his safeword in the last game … Ticklee 004 … Kit Connor!—”
The hall erupted as the hood was wrenched from Tim’s head - he wore a white tuxedo, white bow tie, white shirt, white trousers, black leather loafers - beaming lights assaulted him in a blinding flare; chandeliers dripped with crystal above him, the air smelled of champagne, perfume, and hot stage lights - two Masked Henchmen stood at either side of his tickle chair and held it still in the shadows, at the far side of the stage, as Tim was greeted with the sight of someone he wish he could have gotten to know better, someone he wished he could have helped more …
Ball-gagged, strapped into the same monstrous style of tickle chair as Tim, positioned in the middle of the stage under a spotlight in a black tuxedo clinging to his chest was Kit - ankles and wrists splayed apart like a living display - his hazel eyes wide with defiance as Hypno stood at his side, immaculate in a purple velvet jacket and bow tie, as if he had stepped off the red carpet and onto the gallows.
The audience - thousands of masked men and women in tailored suits and glittering gowns rose to their feet - they clapped, whistled and threw white feathers from balcony boxes like confetti as waiters drifted through the aisles with silver trays of champagne and truffle hors d’oeuvres - it was an awards show for hysteria, a celebration of exquisite cruelty.
“As your contract states,” Miller crooned, his voice effortlessly commanding the hall, “Our loser’s punishment is clear. Kit will now star in next year’s Tickle Fest!—”
A roar of approval as Hypno dipped his head in mock sympathy and began to wheel Kit’s chair toward a black velvet curtain at the edge of the stage - Kit thrashed, ball-gagged groans spilling out, dribble oozing from behind the plastic, but Hypno only smiled beneath his skull mask …
“Take him away,” Miller ordered, “Get that ticklish pup to sign on the dotted line! …” Kit disappeared into darkness.
The next loser emerged from behind the curtain, hooded and bound just like Kit and Tim - the hood was ripped away, a wave of murmurs passed through the crowd as his identity was revealed - Ross, his blond hair damp with sweat, his chest heaving, his tuxedo a little too tight for his muscular, thrashing shape …
“Second to last place …” Miller announced with gleeful disdain, “With a pathetic 200,340 points … Ross Lynch!—”
The cameras panned to capture every flicker of his expression as the audience gasped and cheered, “And his punishment,” Miller continued, pausing for dramatic effect, “Is to become … An official House of White Feathers foot slave!—”
The words seemed to break Ross - his ball gagged contained mouth twisted in fury, his whole body lunging against the straps. “—Mmphh! Grmph! Mnn! Mnnphh! Grrmph! Mnnphh!—”, his muffled groans were swallowed by the room’s laughter as, from behind, Harry Styles, in a crisp mint coloured tux wheeled Ross forward like a prized trophy, smiling as he guided the chair toward the exit - Ross kicked and jerked, fighting the inevitable, his tickle chair rattling across the stage, but the audience only clapped harder, stomping their heels against the polished floor with energy fuelled by dozens of glasses of booze and glory.
Tim’s stomach churned, his heart hammered against the gag, he turned his head and locked eyes with …
… Tom.
Tom was across the stage, dressed in the same white tuxedo outfit as Tim, not black like the other contestants - Tom too was ball gagged, shadowed by darkness, hood freshly removed, wrists and ankles bound in the same obscene display - the moment he saw Tim, he began to writhe, shaking his head, his eyes bulging with panic - the look he hurtled towards Tim suggested ‘this is it, this is where it ends’ …
One by one, the other contestants were paraded onto the stage in tuxedo’s strapped to tickle chairs on wheels; Logan, Joshua, Sebastian, Justin - their point totals displayed in cruel, gleaming numbers on The Leaderboard which dangled above, eliminating each name, face and points as each punishment was read aloud to raucous applause …
Logan was claimed by Brad, bi-weekly edging sessions to be signed, sealed and delivered within minutes behind the scenes, Joshua was handed to a nameless Masked Henchman, his tears shining as he realized he would never see Peter again, Sebastian’s loss contracted him to promised bi-weekly edging sessions under Evans’ cackle, and Justin was wheeled away by The Clown, soaked and thrashing, his thighs and shirt damp, his bow tie crooked …
Miller leaned into the mic, savoring the tension as he sniffed theatrically at Justin’s chair, its squeaky wheels passing him by, “I can confirm that YES, Bieber has pissed himself once again!—” The Event Hall howled with laughter, glasses raised in wicked salute.
Finally, Miller raised a hand for silence - the chandeliers seemed to vibrate with anticipation, “Now…” his voice was silk over steel, “… For our final two, the last players standing …”
The Event Hall fell so silent you could hear a pin drop …
“… Timothée Chalamet and Tom Holland! …—”
The Leaderboard was replaced by a single white glass feather as it descended from the ceiling, the spotlight burning down on the two of them, helpless and shining in their white tuxedos, their gagged breathing echoing in the cathedral of decadence as they were both wheeled by two Masked Henchmen each onto the middle of the stage, their tickle chairs facing each other with a small gap between each leather loafer …
“They will face one last challenge …” Miller confirmed …
Tim and Tom’s eyes bulged open in utter shock at Miller’s next set of words …
“… And the winner will be crowned on live television, in front of the whole entire fucking world …”
“… Merry Fucking Christmas, everyone.”
The announcement hit Harry like a bullet.
“Live …?—”, his voice cracked as he stood frozen beside Ross’s tickle chair in the shadowed outer area of the audience filled hall, the echo of Miller’s declaration still pulsing through the floorboards, “Wait … Wait—”
Ross was still thrashing, spitting into his gag, trying to pull his wrists through the leather restraints, but Harry barely noticed - he laughed nervously, a hollow, panicked sound, and grabbed the nearest Masked Henchman by the scruff of his neck.
“This is LIVE?—”, he hissed, shaking the man, “Like, an actual … Broadcast? To the whole world?—”
The Masked Henchman gave no reply, their featureless black mask stared back at him in silence.
Harry’s mind spiraled; his career, his fans, his name and face on every feed, every phone screen - this wasn’t the whispered, elite depravity he’d signed up for in quiet fascination - this was career death, broadcast in HD - his lungs began to burn with panic …
Suddenly, he ripped a mask off a passing woman’s face - some middle aged socialite in a jeweled gown who gasped as he shoved past - he then pulled it over his own, his hands trembling as he adjusted it, like a child in a bad Halloween costume - without a word, he staggered toward the back exit, ducking through shadows, desperately seeking a door, any door - behind him, Ross howled muffled curses as he was left by himself, the hall now swallowing Harry whole.
On stage, the pageantry of ruin reached its zenith.
Tim and Tom sat restrained in their own individual tickle chairs, under a blaze of chandeliers, their white tuxedos gleaming, their gagged breaths amplified by discreet microphones hidden in the rigs as they looked each other in the eye, both experiencing more than a simple panic at the knowledge that the entire planet was now watching …
From behind the blue curtains slithered the reason behind all this; the person that had once put pen to paper, formulated an idea, an experience, a game of which had now become a reality.
John emerged from the wings like a priest entering the altar, slouched within his wheelchair in his finest tux, the thin remains of his silver hair slicked back, his eyes cold, glazed over and proud - in his thin, veiny hands, he carried a silk pillow, and upon it rested the Winner’s Mask - a pure gold erray of smooth perfection, rimmed and outlined with curled feathers, crests and shimmering excellence …
The Event Hall hushed as the two Masked Henchmen wheeling John’s wheelchair rolled it to a stop between Tim and Tom, holding the pillow high like a relic, the chandeliers rattling faintly from the collective anticipation …
Miller kneeled before John and placed his fingertips over the shining gold of The Winner’s Mask, his eye watering gaze aimed directly at John, “My master,” he whispered, “My lover, my friend, we’re finally here,” tears soaked his eyelashes but refused to fall …
“… I finally made your dream come true …”
The crowd erupted and then quickly silenced again at the raise of Miller’s hand.
He stalked toward Tim, the cameras closing in, his grin sharp and merciless, “The one and only … Timothée Chalamet …”
Tim’s eyes followed him, narrow with hate, jaw clenched around the gag, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple …
“… To think, over five years ago all you wanted to do was earn a little money from your kinky friend Armie Hammer. And now look at where you are …” Miller curled his fingers around Tim’s right loafer, causing Tim to thrash booth feet inward, a moment caught on the filming cameras, now shared with the world, “… Exactly where I want you to be, my Wolf …”
Tim didn’t growl or shout, he didn’t try to speak through the plastic - he just stared at Miller, eyes boiling, teeth biting down as the loafer slowly made its way off of his foot, revealing a sheer sock dressed sole and five toes flexing wildly …
“Win The Final Game …” Miller’s pinched the tips of the stretch cotton gathered around Tim’s toes and began to yank it away, “… And everyone and everything belonging to The House of White Feathers … Mr. Hammer included … Never touch you again,” effortlessly, he pulled the sock off and screwed it into a ball, throwing it to the audience, who all clambered over tables, wine glasses and plates of food to snatch hold of it, to smell it, to taste it …
Tim’s face twisted in rage, his nostrils flaring as dribble slipped from the ball gag and stained the lapel of his tuxedo - his toes clenched hard, his right foot open and naked, his left foot now also being stripped by Miller’s violating touch …
“… Lose this Final Game …” Miller continued, “And you become my slave for the rest of your life. No career. No Academy Awards. No fancy clothes or pretty Kardashian women …” he paused, letting the weight of every word sink in as Tim shook in his bonds, the white suit glowing like a target under the lights, “… And you can see your beloved Mr. Hammer… Twice a week,” off came the loafer, which he then offered to John instead of throwing it into the crowd.
The crowd howled in laughter and applause, like a thousand daggers, slicing through Tim’s composure - the cameras feasted on his face - this was no longer the cool, collected leader, the world famous Hollywood actor that girls screamed for at movie premieres - this was a young man caught in a nightmare with no script, no plan, no escape - his entire body writhed against the restraints, humiliation coursing through him hotter than the lights.
Only one thought comforted him during this moment as John breathed in the scent of musk from within the loafer:
I have to win. If I win, I can find Maxwell.
Tim’s green eyes glowed with venom as he watched Miller turn his attention to Tom.
… And once I’ve found Maxwell, I will kill this mother fucker …
Tom sat restrained in his own tickle chair opposite Tim, sweat beading on his forehead, his legs already flexing as if anticipating the inevitable - his wide brown eyes locked on Miller, and a single muffled sound escaped behind the gag—a whimper, small but shattering under the spotlight.
“And you …” Miller purred, circling Tom like a velociraptor, “… Our sweet, squirming little Spider,” the crowd chuckled, murmuring with delight as Tom shook his head violently, straining against the straps, his chest heaving, “You thought you were always running away. When really, you were always running here, to this moment …” Miller began to pull away Tom’s right loafer, and then his left, “Thomas Holland …” his voice purred, rich with authority and showmanship, both loafers now dangling from his fingertips, “… Win The Games, and you, and everyone here, are freed from us forever …”
The effect was immediate, the contestants erupted in their chairs, Justin, his face slick with sweat and spit, had wrestled his ball gag halfway out with his tongue - he gave a violent shake, and it popped free with a wet snap, “—TOM! WIN, YOU FUCK!—”, he screamed, hoarse and frantic, “—WIN! GET US FUCKING OUT OF HERE!—”, a Masked Henchman lunged toward him, trying to shove the ball gag back, but Justin twisted and snapped his teeth like a rabid dog.
Kit convulsed in his chair, his face beet-red, eyes bulging with terror, his gagged cries shredded the air, “—MHHHMPH! TOOOHHHHM! MMMHHHH! MHHNNNPH!—”
Joshua’s scream was the clearest of all, even muffled, “—TOMPH! TOMPH! TOMPH!—”, he shook violently, foam forming at the corners of his mouth, the ball gag pounded with desperation - he knew freedom dangled by a thread - If Tom won, he could be with Peter again …
Sweat dripped from Tom’s hairline and down the pale curve of his cheek, both sheer sock covered feet twisting and curling as Miller let the chanting rise to a fever pitch before slicing through it with his voice.
“… But lose …” he said, stepping closer, letting the spotlights carve his grin into a jackals snarl, “… And you become Hypno’s plaything for the rest of your life …”
The Event Hall trembled with excitement as the spotlight swung toward the figure emerging from the wings:
Hypno.
Purple velvet jacket, black bow tie, metallic skull mask catching the light - his eyes glowed electric blue as the audience screamed, on their feet, drunk on spectacle.
Tom froze, his heart stopped and started again with a painful jolt - Harrison - it had to be Harrison, his best friend, his brother in all but blood - Harrison wouldn’t hurt him like this, he wouldn’t keep him in a life of endless, public tickle torment. He wouldn’t—
—Twenty, nine, three, eleven, twelve, five … the numbers always rolled through Tom’s mind …
… Would he?
Hypno tilted his head with that eerie, mechanical patience - no mercy in the mask, no hint of Harrison …
Tom’s stomach plunged into ice - for a single, shattering moment, a thoughts sliced through the numbers; losing isn’t an option …
Tom yanked at his bonds, legs kicking in the stocks, toes curling in the sheer socks, shoulders thrusting forwards - the leather straps groaned but did not budge, his gag dribbled spit down his white tuxedo shirt, chest heaving upward as the world spun under heat and sound …
Miller let the silence sit for a beat, then raised both arms, Tom’s shining loafers still in his grasp.
“Before we begin tonight’s grand finale,” Miller announced, his voice a velvet purr that filled the glittering hall, “Let’s whet your appetites with a little aperitif…”
The audience fell silent, leaning forward in their seats, chandeliers glimmered against their plastic white masks.
“Thirty seconds,” Miller said, as he threw Tom’s loafers into the crowds, “And one simple task: don’t move your feet …” he prowled toward the two bound contestants, “… Whoever lasts without flinching gets a safeword for The Final Game,” the crowd leapt towards Tom’s footwear like hyenas to a carcass …
Tim and Tom’s tickle chairs faced the roaring, glittering sea of spectators, the devices angled in slightly so that they could see each other; Tim’s jaw tightened around the rubber ball of his gag - he could taste sweat, salt, and shame, the plastic pressed his tongue flat, making his breathing ragged … He became acutely aware that one foot was bare, exposing a weakness.
Tom still had both sheer socks hugging his feet - the advantage was his, yet terror still had him by a choke hold, mostly due to the fact that his ticklishness could soon be the highlight of Christmas TV scheduling …
Miller pocketed his microphone and knelt between the chairs like a maestro poised to conduct, “Who will I break?” His hands hovered in the stage lights, then descended with featherlight precision, one set of fingers to Tim’s bare sole, “The Wolf?—”, the other to Tom’s sheer socked arch, “—Or The Spider?”…
Tim inhaled hard through his nose - his training with Maxwell replayed in his head: control, focus, endurance … He clamped down on the reflex as he forced his feet into a fixed and rigid pose, the need to move them becoming borderline unbearable almost too quickly …
Tom bit down on his gag hard - his knees snatched together as if magnetised, his feet tormentingly motionless - he didn’t count down from thirty, he just recited the numbers in his mind again and again and again … Twenty, nine, three, eleven, twelve, five …
Tim shot a desperate look up into the spotlights as sweat dripped down his neck and the ballgag pulsed in his mouth; his brain told him to curl his toes but he kept everything still, the audience now chanting the countdown …
“… 12 … 11 … 10 …!—”
Miller’s fingers danced in tiny circles, then walked slowly down to their heels - Tom let out a muffled, squealing grunt, his head thrashed, his eyes bulged wide …
“… 9 … 8 … 7 …!—”
As soon as Miller jumped to Tom’s left big toe, his feet jerked away, twisting in the stocks with such strength that they rattled, the sheer fabric of his socks catching the stage light as the crowd erupted in laughter and applause.
“—THE WOLF GET’S THE SAFE WORD!—” Miller’s voice boomed, back on the mic as he shot to his feet, “Ladies and gentlemen, your appetites are whetted. Let us prepare for The Final Game … The Spider & The Wolf!—”
The audience roared as the two white-suited captives were wheeled offstage, their chairs clanking across the polished floor - Tom’s chest heaved, his face scarlet with shame as Tim leaned back, eyes closed, drinking in the fleeting victory - both of them now wondered, even if they won The Games or if they lost them, would their careers - their lives - ever recover from this?
As Masked Henchmen began to prepare for The Final Game and as Masked Servers repoured champagne into glasses and delivered more horderves to tables, Miller crouched before John, who still sat trembling with age, his mouth wet with drool, the Winners Mask still resting on the red cushion over his lap.
“This…” John rasped, voice like breaking paper, “… This was even better than the lasss, last time …”
Miller took his hand and kissed the knotted knuckles, “My reason for living is to please you,” he whispered, “I will bring only ticklish perfection … Time and Time again … Until your very last breath …”
A voice-over boomed back into The Event Hall, velvet and calm:
“… Ladies and gentlemen, for their focus and for your pleasure, The Final Game, ‘The Spider & The Wolf’ will take place in a private studio. The boys will need no distractions, and, therefore, no mercy. With their consent, they are politefully and quietly being bound into position as we speak, so please use this opportunity to ensure your glass is full. Restrooms can be found to the left of The Event Hall—”
Tim and Tom’s tickle chairs skidded to a stop within a blacked out room as twelve Masked Henchmen closed in, their gloved hands reaching for both ticklee’s like a swarm.
Tim sat still, his chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his one bare foot flexing slightly while the other, still in its sheer sock, curled up protectively - he stared forward, green eyes shimmering, his jaw tight against the ball gag, expression unreadable - he didn’t believe this was really being broadcast to the world - he had force himself to doubt it - it’s just another fucking mindgame, another layer in that sick bastards warped fucking head …
Tom, on the other hand, erupted into a splay of kicks and writhes, his whole body jerking with raw panic as the Masked Henchmen descended on him, “—MNPHH! MNNPHH! MNPPHH?—”, his sheer-socked feet thrashed as guttural, muffled shouts tore from behind his ball gag, “—MNNPHH! MNNPHH!—”, his head whipped side to side, chin flinging sweat as he strained against the straps, muscles bulging with each violent attempt to break free - he knew, with what felt like crystal-clear horror, that millions were watching and that his career was probably over …
Hands untied wrists and unlocked stocks, only to seize fabric as white tuxedos were torn away in bursts of sounds - rips, snaps, the ping of buttons now skittering across the floor …
Tim’s jacket peeled off his shoulders, his white shirt wrenched open and stripped in one smooth pull - he stayed composed, breathing heavily but silent, unbound in his tickle chair, his chest glistening under the studio lights as his right hand pinched the ball gag away from his mouth where it then sat wet around his neck - his trousers and underwear were tugged down over his legs, remaining sheer sock yanked off until both feet were as bare as his cock and balls …
Tom was chaos personified - he roared into the ball gag as his tuxedo was torn away, seams popping under The Masked Henchmen’s relentless hands - his legs kicked, his sheer socks snatched away from him, leaving his feet exposed, toes curling in frantic reflex - he fought the removal of his trousers like a man drowning, hips twisting, legs jerking, but it only delayed the inevitable—he was stripped naked, every squirm and thrust broadcast in excruciating detail, causing him to finally tear the ball gag out of his mouth, allowing four words to bark from his throat, raw and broken: four words that carried the weight of his entire existence in this nightmare, his endless instinct to run, to fight, to escape, to deny them since day one, “—Get off of me!—” it was his only weapon against a world that wanted to own him, but now, the echo of his scream felt hollow, devoured by the studios dark walls and the masked faces surrounding him.
The device waited in the center of the room - wide enough for two bodies, a cruel two-seated row with its double set of stocks suggesting classic over creative - its seat was a single slab of black leather, polished and slick, as if eager to feel the weight of its captives …
Tim and Tom were dragged toward it, their heels slipping across the polished floor, breathless and sweating under the assault of the twelve relentless Masked Henchmen - Tom fought with every nerve in his body, twisting and leaping, feet kicking out wildly until two pairs of hands clamped over his wrists and ankles, “—GET OFF OF ME!—” there was that bark again, as if everything he had ever done to fight against the cult had been reduced to those four words, his body now hauled onto the seat with a thud.
Tim didn’t resist - he let them steer him forward, his face set in a strange, quiet defiance as The Masked Henchmen worked in silent choreography, practiced and merciless - heavy leather cuffs wrapped around Tom and Tim’s wrists, forcing their arms up and back, securing them to the top rail of the seat, shoulders pulled taut, ribcages stretched, armpits wide and vulnerable under the humidity of the circumstance.
The clank of wood on wood echoed as their ankles were locked into the twin sets of stocks at the end of the seat - however, they were not locked side by side as expected - instead, Tom and Tims legs were spread tightly apart, Tom’s left leg crossing with Tim’s right, therefore ensuring the other side of the stocks presented a row of feet at random; Tom’s sole, then Tims, then Tom’s again, and then Tim’s, a position neither of them had ever been in before …
The final touch came with an almost ceremonial weight: cold silver collars fastened around their necks, the chink of a padlock working as a full stop to the set up - each lock bore a single engraved feather, glinting like a signature of ownership …
Side by side, stretched and displayed, their fates were sealed in polished leather and steel
Tim turned his head towards Tom and snatched hold of his attention, “—Hey! Tom!—” once Tim saw Tom look at him, Tim smiled, “—You gotta win, man …” he tried his best to reassure his friend, however, The Masked Henchmen were readying two camera stands and two cameras, which they began to position at each corner of the stocks, “—I’ll let you! I always wanted us to get to this point, that’s been my whole plan all along … Your outcome is the most important,” he looked at Tom’s mouth as he whispered his winning ultimatum, “… ‘you win, all of us are set free’ …”
Tom’s back arched, his stomach muscles flexed, studio lights began to switch on, — boom, boom, boom — the lens of the camera stared directly at his soles, right at the meaning of the word ‘vulnerability’, “—Oh, mate, I think they know I can’t win!—” Tom whined, the red recording light of the cameras beeping on, “—They’re not gonna let us play them, not now!—” the cameras began to record, the footage streamed out live in Times Square as well as the giant screen in The Event Hall, for the hundreds of masked spectators to see …
Miller stepped inside the studio, still dressed in his tuxedo, bow tie and smart trousers; he positioned himself behind the boys and placed both hands over the top of the chair, purposefully resting his left palm over Tim’s hands.
“Are you both ready for the world to see how ticklish you are?” He asked.
Miller approached with the calm, unhurried steps of a predator.
Behind him, a Masked Henchman arrived, carrying a heavy silver suitcase - without a word, Miller set it upon a waiting stool, the metallic clink echoing in the studio as he snapped it open just enough for himself to see - whatever lay inside was hidden from the boys.
He turned first to Tom.
“Well then,” Miller said softly, kneeling at the edge of the stocks where Tom’s feet fiercely curled, the between of each toe hidden by the tightness of the scrunch, “Let’s make you presentable, for what could be your very last time …”
Tom shook his head wildly, teeth digging into his lower lip as Miller took the first loop of string nailed to the back of the stocks and hooked it around his left big toe, tying it back, “Turn the cameras off, big man,” Miller’s grip was merciless, steady as stone, ignoring the desperate flexing of Tom’s foot, “—I mean it, I’ll start screaming for help, mate, seriously—” the next string caught his right big toe, pulled taut until both feet were stretched and framed, utterly helpless, “—Fine! Ignore me! OI, HELP!—” he yelled into the cameras, “—HEEEELP! HELLP US!—”, Tom grunted and bucked, shaking the chair with his panic as Miller tied off his remaining toes one by one, immobilizing them in a fan of exposed vulnerability, “—Sw, Sweden! We’re in, we’re in Sweden!—”
Miller pivoted without pause, his shadow sliding over Tim’s tense body - unlike Tom, Tim met Miller’s eyes with a cold, unblinking stare - when Miller’s hands touched his feet, they jolted in reflex, but he refused to flinch otherwise, “Yes …” Miller cackled as he began to tie back Tim’s toes, saving his favourite for last, “… Sweden …” the moment Miller looped the last bit of string around Tim’s left index toe, Tim inhaled sharply, a whisper of strain cracking through his control, “… Whoever you’re shouting to on the other side of that camera is going to do sweet fuck all …” Miller said, dusting off his hands, rising smoothly to a tall stand, “You’re both mine … The Spider and The Wolf, side by side, for the big finish ...”
He let the words hang as the studio swallowed them whole, Tim’s jaw clenching, Tom’s mouth slowly murmuring towards Tim as the cameras recorded, “—Mate, we’re on live tele, what the bloody f—”
“—Here is how it works,” Miller announced brazenly, pacing between their stretched bodies, his voice amplified as he addressed both Tim and Tom, as well as the entire world, “Tom, Ticklee 000, you have 469,898 points …Tim, Ticklee 002, you have 488,751 points. To win The Games, you must reach 500,000 … But …” he paused, eyes glinting as he crouched low, close enough that Tom and Tim could feel the warmth of Miller’s breath against their soles, “…Tonight, I will do something I rarely do. I will play fair …”
He snapped his fingers.
From above, The Leaderboard screen extended from inside of the ceiling, presenting an updated screen showcasing Tom and Tim’s faces, as well as their new points score …
TOM: 450,000
TIM: 450,000
“You both start fresh …” Miller said, standing again, “… Fifty thousand points stand between you and freedom …”
“… The Final Game has five rounds. Each round is a tribute to a trial endured. Win a round, earn points. Fail, earn nothing. At the end of the fifth round, the one closest to 500,000 wins The Games …”
He paused again, letting the gravity of that number linger, before leaning closer to them both, “If you win, the collar comes off and you get to go home. If you lose … The collar stays on forever,” his finger tapped Tim’s silver padlock lightly, “And your punishment begins; Tom, you’ll get taken away by Hypno, or Tim, you’ll get taken away by me …” that finger than curled around Tim’s collar, hooking tightly against his adam’s apple, causing Tim’s throat to bob.
“You have a safeword, Wolf,” Miller handled Tim like a dog, “You can use it just once, but what will it be, my locked up pup?”
Tim resented the love he had grown to feel for what he and Armie had explored together, yet he also respected it. With that in mind, he spoke the word he had uttered countless times in their most intimate moments before this fresh hell began.
“—New York—”, he said proudly, invoking the safe word that had once been his shield.
Tom threw his head back - frustrated, impatient, keen to escape - as Tim glared into his lap - controlled, always thinking, his mind a secret, Miller now sliding his finger away from his collar and tasting the metal with his tongue.
Miller gestured to the bondage set up, “This is the essence of tickling. No steel walls. No spinning bottles or racks. No other contestants … And most importantly …” he smiled, sharp and proud, “… No fucking robots …”
Unbeknownst to Tom and Tim, Miller had deactivated T.K entirely; only a day ago he stood before the giant black orb that made up T.K’s central database, deep within the lower floors of The Mansion, his reflection warped in the glossy surface.
“You once told me that if I ever defy you, you’d peel my brain from my skull like an egg,” Miller whispered, hand on the power cord, “You were mistaken, you little bitch. I control this world …”
With a single motion, he yanked the cord and T.K.’s lights went dark.
Btssssss …
Tom’s chest heaved with both fear and relief, “… So, T.K’s just … Gone?” He hated how his voice croaked, higher than usual, “Just like that?” T.K was Tom’s only useful power, in some twisted way he hoped those metallic coils would show up so he could use the programmed obsession towards him as a way to get out of this, but if Miller’s story were true, T.K’s snake-like shape currently lay slumped somewhere on the basement floor, gathering dust…
Miller tilted his head, almost pitying, “You’ve always underestimated me, Tom. What I do. What I’ve made. This,” he said, sweeping an arm toward the studio lights, The Leaderboard and the cameras filming the session and sharing it with the world, “This is proof of your ignorance!—” he picked out a bottle of massage oil from the briefcase and uncapped the lid.
“I know Tim’s body better than he does,” Miller said, pouring a thin stream of oil along the curve of Tim’s sole, massaging it in slow, deliberate circles until the foot gleamed under the lights, “Better than Armie ever did …” he shifted to Tom’s feet, drawing another grunt from the young man as the cold oil slicked his arches, glistening against his pale heels, his eyes burning into Tom’s, “… But I can’t do the two of you alone.”
He rose, closed up the massage lotion and said, almost like a lover’s tease: “Tom… Meet your tickler.”
The studio door creaked open and Tom’s tickler stepped inside.
He too bore the silver collar with the engraved feather, his tuxedo unbuttoned and his eyes shadowed with something unreadable.
Tom froze, the last threads of defiance in him twisting into raw disbelief.
“—Andrew?—”
Tim’s head snapped toward Tom when he heard the sound - raw, shaky, and real - his cocky friend, the one always keen to make a joke out of the serious up till now, had tears in his eyes …
“—Ma, mate—”, Tom’s lips swelled as his vision blurred with emotion, “—What … Thank fuck you’re here!”
Andrew stood inside the studio, swallowed by the harsh light from outside - slowly, that light slithered into nothing as the studio door closed with a clank.
Andrew wore the same silver collar that glinted at the throats of Tim and Tom, his padlock engraved with the white feather that seemed to mock them all - his hands were clasped behind his back, not by rope, but by decision, his shoulders stiff, brown eyes darting down to the floor as if he were a schoolboy caught in some unspeakable sin.
Miller moved like silk around Andrew, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tom,” he said smoothly, voice a purr that curled through the air, “He isn’t here to suck you off, or belt you into a harness, or chew on your nipples like all the photo’s and video’s suggest he did almost, what? Every weekend? …”
Tim’s eyebrows lifted as he looked at Tom in shock - Tom looked away, his cheeks boiling pink - the world was learning some pretty private things, almost every other minute …
Miller patted Andrew on the back, “We simply … Needed Andrew. We needed someone who knows your body better than you do. Someone who can make you beg, make you squeal, make every fiber of your ticklish being scream for mercy. You think you boys can twist this so that you end up winning? Oh no, my little Spider. Andrew has been ordered to not even let you breathe … And Wolf?” Miller pursed his lips at Tim, “I’ll be playing this so hard you won’t even being able to think, let alone give Tom the chance of winning.”
Tom shook his head violently against the leather seat, “No … No, no, mate, talk to me! Please, say something! Andrew!—”
Andrew lifted his eyes for a heartbeat - guilt and resignation clouding his face - before lowering his head again.
Miller’s voice hardened to a cruel whisper, “Your efforts are pointless, kid. He’s been silenced, and, he’s been told if he speaks, we just go again … ”
Tim’s patience finally snapped, “Again? Man, what the fuck is going on?” His voice was low, venomous, “Anyone watching this shit, anyone, is gonna call the cops. My friends, my family, my fans …” he leapt forwards, silver cuffs and stocks allowing him only to hurtle upward with a bounce, “… You can’t do this shit, man!—”
Miller’s laugh was soft at first, then grew into a rolling, elegant cackle that filled the studio - he leaned in, close enough that Tim could smell the faintest trace of cologne, “—The law is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what we control, you handsome fuck. Religion bends to us. Royalty answers to us. And as for Tom and Andrew…” He smiled, sharklike, turning to Tom, “I even control what they have, what you and Armie have. I always have done.”
Tim’s glare faltered for a second as the weight of the words hit him - Miller spread his arms, encompassing the cameras, the lights, the silver collars, the perfect rows of helpless feet.
“No one is coming for you,” Miller folded his arms, “No one even knows how to find you. Isn’t it… Exhilarating!—”, a Masked Henchman approached Miller, pressing a finger to his earpiece …
“… Sir - live on Instagram, live on Twitter, live on OnlyFans, live on CNN, live in…” he listed network after network, each word another nail in the coffin of hope as Tom’s chest heaved, panic and anger twisting together, “… London, New York, Tokyo, Paris, uh, everywhere, sir …”
“Andrew, please! Get us out! Punch the wanker in the balls, do, do something!—” he rattled his wrists, kicked his legs, his flaccid cock flapping over his thighs as Tim sat still, green eyes piercing his chest, “—Don’t, don’t let him do this!—”
Andrew hesitated … And then walked silently to Miller’s side, his collar gleaming in the studio lights.
Miller’s grin sharpened - behind the boys, the giant leaderboard flickered, glowing in white, yellow and red letters …
Tom’s body stiffened in the seat as a moment of alarm ran visibly down his naked, stretched frame.
“… Don’t let the balloon pop …” he whispered under his breath, barely audible - he said it again, mantra-like, “Don’t … Let it pop …”
Tim’s head turned, catching the tremor in Tom’s voice - he remembered the footage from Game One, The Yellow Balloon - he and the other contestants had watched it live on a TV screen in The Living Quarters during a time that felt like yesterday - Tom had barely survived it that game … He had no idea how he’d even made it through, “—It’s cool,” Tim reassured, “The thing fucking around with you then was a machine, Tom …” Tim nodded at Miller and Andrew, “… These are just guys, these are just …” he practically glared at Miller, “… He’s just a fucking pervert …”
Miller’s voice coiled through the room, commanding and focused, “T.K may not be here, but we ‘perverts’ sure as hell learned a lot from that ‘machine’. The cuffs around your wrists are sensor monitors …” he explained, gliding toward them with a hungry elegance, “… They track your pulse, your blood pressure, and, most importantly … Your hysteria … The task is simple: do not let the balloon on the screen pop. The more hysterical you become … The larger it will grow.”
The screen flickered to life in front of them - two bright yellow CGI balloons appeared, one labeled TOM, the other TIM, each pulsing faintly in time with their quickening heartbeats, both balloons flat … For now.
Tom clenched his jaw, staring at his own name, “Oh, bollocks—”
—For a moment, the boys believed their feet would be under attack - vulnerable and perfectly lined up in the stocks - their toes curled, tension rising in the air, but Miller and Andrew only traded a look - then, as if rehearsed, they both rose.
Andrew silently retrieved the massage lotion from the briefcase, poured a generous puddle into his hands, and rubbed it into his fingertips - the sound of his slick hands rubbing together filled the quiet as Tom’s eyes widened.
“… Put the bottle down, mate…”
Andrew didn’t answer, he only flexed his fingers, slick and glistening as Miller moved behind the wide, double seat where both young men were bound, his presence heavy on their skin.
The Masked Henchman at the corner of the studio announced, “Round One … Begins …”, a timer appeared on the screen: 10:00 … 09:59 … 09:58 …
Tom’s pulse spiked as Andrew started first, barely touching him, his fingertips ghosting over the tender hollows of Tom’s exposed underarms - the effect was electric - Tom let out a sharp, uncontrollable snap of the teeth, his back arching, his head slamming against the leather seat, “—Oh god, mate!—”, he thrashed so violently the entire device rattled, the balloon labeled ‘Tom’ began to pulse and expand, “—Ten minutes of this! You’ve got to be joking!—” …
Tim’s jaw tightened as Miller joined in, his own fingertips feathering towards the furry depths of Tim’s underarms - Tim sucked in a ragged breath, every muscle in his body stiffening as he tried to control himself, “—Shut up, Tom! You’re doing yourself no favours, man!—”
“—Breathe, Timmy…” Miller whispered, close to his ear, “I want to see how long that composure lasts …”
Tim pressed his chin against his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, teeth digging into his lower lip - his body became a statue, he chose to barely make a sound …
Andrew did not need to do much in the slightest - all it took was one index finger in each of Tom’s armpits - a circle shape, on repeat, slowly, sometimes barely even there, non stop - enough for the viewing world to see Tom implode into a manic mess of kicking, spinning, his legs thrashing in the stocks, bare feet flexing and curling frantically, “—Mate, mate, STOP!—” his shoulder pressed against Tim’s, their bodies colliding as Tom’s squirming took dominance, “—NO, I, mnn, don’t, you don’t have to, to do this, you wanker!—” he angrily snarled his thoughts out loud …
“Tom…” Miller crooned from behind, fingers now dancing faster inside Tim’s underarms, “You’re already feeding the balloon. Don’t you see?” The screen showed it clearly - Tom’s balloon had grown noticeably larger, whilst Tim’s balloon pulsed steadily, only slightly larger than when they’d begun, “Don’t be dumbass,” Miller grinned, “You’ve had practise, after all …”
The Masked Henchman by the door unbuttoned his trousers, touching himself as the sight unfolded: two world-famous men, naked, glistening, bound and writhing, their vulnerability spilling into the microphones above them.
Tim’s restraint began to crack - Miller’s fingers were patient but relentless, they took their time breaking down the door that made up Tim’s resilience by actioning a mixture of feathery flicks and sudden digs within the expanse of thick, dark armpit hair, “—Yo, mnn, man! Yo, ohhh, you asshole!—” Tim groaned through clenched teeth, his head falling back, “—Ffffffu—HUCK you, Miller, you daha, dahaHAMN bahaha, ahahahastard!—”
Andrew’s faint circle draw did not increase pressure, but the speed increased - Tom’s balloon expanded faster now, vibrating ominously on the screen, his torso leaping from side to side, throwing itself forwards and then backwards, howls of laughter bellowing out from a twisted grin, “—Mahahahahahate! Oh, coh, come ON! MAHAHA, AHAHAHAHA, AHAHAHATE! Sss, sss, stop, stop, SSSSS-TOP!—” he screamed, Andrew’s index fingers now wet with a mixture of oil and sweat, Tom’s bare underarms now shining, “—AH, AFTER oh, oh, ALL, we’ve bee, been through!—” Tom whined …
Tim’s balloon remained smaller, though his reservation was betraying him - his abs tightened, his lip was throbbing from where he’d bitten it, and low, involuntary heaves of laughter started to slip from his throat as Miller picked up the speed, “—Dahahahamn! Dahahahahamn! Dahahahahamn!—” Miller’s fingernails scratched past thick armpit hair, they arrived at warm, fleshy depths, they clawed into Tim’s extreme sensitivity, “—OH god, OH sshhh, sssshh-HIT!—” crack, snap, BREAK, “—OH GOD, OH GOAHAHAHAD, SSSHHH, SSSHHIT!—” …
Andrew exploited the tender hollows of Tom’s armpits by switching the non stop draw of a circle with a barely there scribble, ever so faintly, right in the centre of each armpit, causing Tom to erupt like a set of unmanageable fireworks, shooting hot sparks through his mind, his throat, his eyes, “—NOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAH, NNN, STOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—”, he was on constant propel mode, always leaping and thrashing, always contained, legs spread apart, feet mixed up with Tim’s, his mind-set uncaring if he elbowed Tim in the face or accidentally smacked him in the nose; his laughter was a wild, fractured mess, the kind that tore out of his nose without permission, breaking into desperate squeals and guttural yelps, “—STTOOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA SSS, SST! NOOOAAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!—” he arched his spine so hard the edges of the double seat rattled once again, his right shoulder jamming against Tim’s, the two of them sliding and jostling in their shared bondage, the cameras catching every single second, the world now witness to their levels of extreme ticklishness …
Miller’s fingers pressed into Tim’s underarms with the kind of calculated craftsmanship that only someone who knew his body intimately could inflict - he had started slow, tracing the furry skin with the pads of his fingers, circling just beneath the hollow where Tim’s biceps met his chest - now he was fully inside each armpit, digging in, scribbling firmly, succeeded in shattering Tim’s composure just like he told him he would …
“—ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! YOU SSS, SCK FU-HUCK! SST, SSTOP! MILLER, MAH-HAN!—”, Tim’s laughter was pulled right out from him, his head jerking forward, dark curls sticking to his damp forehead, “—COME ON, I SAID STOP, COME ON, MAN!—”, he writhed against the cuffs, arms stretching high, but the leather stocks held firm, his armpits hopelessly exposed, “—WHEN ARE YOU GONNA GET THE MESSAGE, MAN!—”
04:28 … 04:27 … 04:26 …
Andrew’s touch wasn’t playful like Tom had experienced before, it was merciless, ruthless, obsessive - his index fingers scribbled deep into Tom’s hairless pits, his nails grazing just enough to make Tom’s reactions erratic, uncontrollable, epically out of this world - he knew exactly how to exploit every inch of Tom’s underarms, his invasive exploration far worse than any whizzing stick or vibrating pen from a tickler made of nuts and bolts …
“—AAAAAAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHANDREW AAAAAAAAAAHAHA! HAHAHAHANDREW AAAAAAAAHHHHNDREEEW!—”, the lotion only made it worse, Tom could feel each individual fingernail scribbling and scratching, his muscular body thrashing in raw, panicked waves, his frame was slick and taunt, his breath heaving in short, ragged bursts, “—TUH, TUH, TURN THE CAMERAS OFF!—” he didn’t want anyone seeing him like this, so wide eyed, so distressed, so ticklish …
Miller leaned in close, his voice a low purr right in Tim’s ear, “Look at you … Finally dropping that little act. All that bravado, all that confident calm… Gone. Now it’s just me and these…” all eight of his fingers journeyed deep into Tim’s hairy armpits, nails scratching just enough to make Tim arch his spine so hard it clicked, “… These helpless, perfect, ticklish pits …”
Tim spun to the left, pressing his shoulder against Tom’s, every movement jerky and desperate, his laughter now completely uncontrollable, filling the studio high and raw, “—YOU FUHAUAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHCK YOU FUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHACK YOU SICK FUHAHAHAHAHAHAAHCK!—” he then spun to the right, his flaccid cock whipping along with him as he did so …
“You hear that, Tim?” Miller taunted, never stopping the twisting, burrowing torment of his fingers, “That’s the sound of the whole world watching you curse as you break. Your fans. Your friends. Every last one of them seeing you dominated by laughter I create, you’re such a helpless little bitch …”
Tom’s squealed begs disintegrated into helpless, broken howls of hysteria as Andrew persisted in his index fingered scribble, both fingernails working in tandem now, the barely there touch deep into each slick underarm without even really baring any presence, “—OH STOAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH OH STOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I CAN’T, Andrew! I CAN’T, Andrew! I CAN’T breathe, I can’t, I can’t BREAHAHA, AHAHAHA, AHAHAHA!—”, the slow swirls were maddening, delicate, flirtatious, intimate, so much so that it made Tom glare into each of his underarms as if simply willing it to stop with his eyes might make a difference, “—Ahahahahandrew, mah, mahaha, MATE, mahaha, MATE, get ohahahaha, OUT, I can’t, I can’t tahaha take it!—”
Miller grinned, leaning in to watch Tim’s balloon inflate faster on the screen, now almost matching Tom’s ready-to-burst size, “You’re mine, Tim … You’ve always been mine…” Tim’s chest and shoulders were wet with sweat, “… And now not only Armie gets to see it, the whole world does too …”
Tim lost all rhythm in his laughter, breaking into wheezes, breathless huffs and howls as the minutes seemed to go on forever, stomach lifting, arms straining uselessly above his head, time no longer a concept, Miller’s taunts teetering between fury and despair, “—SSS, SSSTTAHAHAHAA, SSSTTT, SSSTAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH! SSSST, STTTAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—” Tim couldn’t help but glance sideways, blinking through blurred vision as he watched Tom fall apart - even restrained himself, his own nerves on fire, he’d never seen someone look so utterly undone.
Tom’s balloon on the screen expanded violently, trembling at its edges, one more squeal away from popping, “—STOAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH ANDREW STTOOOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ANDREW STOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!—” Andrew knew exactly what to do - as his index fingers continued to faintly scribble, Andrew leaned over the back of the chair, extended his tongue and ever so carefully began to lick Tom’s left ear - done - a high pitched shriek, a hurtled leap forwards and then—
POP!
Tom’s yellow balloon popped and deflated into a torn, computerised slump of plastic on the screen.
POP!
Tim’s yellow balloon then popped half a second later …
The Masked Henchmen edged himself, close to orgasm, but not allowing he himself to also, ahem, pop …
TIMOTHÉE WINS ROUND ONE - the wording on the screen flashed, it lit up both Tom and Tim’s wet faces as the fingers that had tormented them for the best part of nine minutes and thirty six seconds slithered out of their underarms …
🎉 TIMOTHÉE - 460,000 🎉
👎🏼 TOM - 450,000 👎🏼
Tom sagged against the device, gasping, drenched in sweat, his armpits soaked and shining - Tim was barely better, his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, sweat tracing down his neck as his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.
Miller clapped his hands once, smiling like the devil, “One down …” he said smoothly, “… Four to go …”
Tom groaned the moment he saw the title of Round Two - his head dropped back against the padded seat, curls damp with sweat, chest still heaving after the relentless force that was the tip of Andrew’s index fingers, “Oh, come on, mate … No, that’s not possible …”
Tim’s eyebrows flattened into a straight line as he took in the illustration of himself - even amongst the absurdity of their current circumstance, Tim has to ask: “Do I look like that?—”
Miller arched an eyebrow, standing in front of the boys as the ultimate host, “And why, Tom?” He had to hear him say it out loud, “Why is it not possible?”
Tom tutted, “Because I’m—”, he shook his fists, the metal wrist cuffs clanking, his toes scrunching tightly, “—I’m ridiculously ticklish, it’s not news, especially to you, big man! I can’t not laugh. It’s … It’s how I cope, I’m sure Tim agrees,” Tom turned to Tim, “—Right, mate?—”
Tim twisted his head and unintentionally lost his patience with Tom, “That’s the whole idea of the game, man! Come on, at least… Try!—” he felt a sting of guilt as soon as Tom lowered his head, cheeks shimmering pink …
Miller’s grin widened, “You tell him, Timmy! Now …” Miller paced from left to right as Andrew watched on from behind, “This round is is inspired by Game Four, ‘Oink’ … Tom, you wanna do the honours and explain to Tim and Andrew what I mean? You were there, after all …”
Tom huffed and tried his best to ignore the cameras staring him in the face, “Ross was tasked with not laughing, if, if he laughed, he lost …”
Miller pursed his lips, “… And, what was the result? Before your little break out, of course …”
A beat of silence landed in the studio as Tim watched Tom silently, his eye lashes blinking quick.
“… Ross failed,” Tom gulped.
Miller clapped his palms together and waltzed to the silver suitcase - from inside, he withdrew two black paddle hair brushes, handing one to Andrew, whose face remained blank and unreadable, however, he did notice the sight of the hairbrushes making Tom visibly tense in his seat.
“No, nope—” Tom shook his head and grinned, “—I’m telling you, mate, just seeing that stuff is enough, it’s game over, alright?”
Tim had many weaknesses Maxwell had helped him overcome, but a hairbrush to the soles of his feet was a force he knew he would find difficult to reckon with …
Miller picked out the same bottle of massage lotion he had use to coat Tim’s feet, uncapping the lid, kneeling before Tom’s right foot, “Give yourself a little more credit, Spider …” he gripped the top of Tom’s foot and drizzled lotion all over it, “… You’re meant to be a superhero, right?”
Tom’s feet thrashed inward, “—OI! I’ll, I’m gonna, I’ll—”
Miller tilted his head, tucking his hairbrush into the waistband of his trousers, feigning sympathy, “You’ll…?”
“—I’LL LOSE!—” Tom yelled, tugging uselessly against the cuffs, “I’ll lose, I’ll scream, I’ll laugh, I told you this game is bloody impossible!—” slow, deliberate circles pressed into Tom’s arches as Miller kneaded the oil deep into every curve and soft expanse of flesh, “—See, this, this is just …” Tom’s eyes watered as Miller’s fingers moved like they were savoring a ritual, sliding up over the ball of his foot, gliding down the instep, pressing into the hollow of the arch, “—STOP TOUCHING THEM!—” Tom screamed, his pale, soft soles flexing outward, the chair rattling once again as the toe ties snatched both feet back.
Andrew watched silently, his jealous eyes following every thrash of Tom’s feet - in an effort to look away, he focused on Tim, who sat thinking, clearly focusing on how to cope, pre planning, utilising what experience he had …
With Tim’s soles already coated and with Tom’s soles now shimmering with a glistening shine, The Masked Henchman stepped forward with a small remote and started the timer: 10:00 … 09:59 … 09.58 … “Round Two begins,” he said, and then immediately, his gloved hand went to his crotch, stroking himself through the fabric as he watched.
Andrew went to crouch down in front of Tom’s feet, but Miller’s hand pressed him away.
“No, no, traitor,” Miller hissed, “We’re swapping places for this one …”
Andrew had no choice but to nod once, shuffling over to Tim’s feet as Miller focused on Tom’s.
Tim had met Andrew once before, but he had never been tickled by him, not like this - the one of a kind moment, likely to never happen again, caused Andrew to smile kindly at Tim, almost apologetically, leaving Tim to say one thing, “I never trusted you, man …”
Andrew’s left eyebrow dropped, his lips parted, he wanted to say the words, ‘you have no idea’, but he knew if he spoke, an extreme punishment affecting both he and Tom would leak out into a world already watching - instead, Andrew leaned into doing what he did best - causing unmeasurable suffering …
Tim’s whole body lunged upwards as the hairbrush bristles scrubbed against his left heel - his toes splayed automatically, his right foot twisting inward, his stomach sucking in, his jaw locking as his breath hissed out of his nostrils, “—DAYUMN!—” he growled, the need to laugh building like pressure under his ribs ...
Andrew reached across to Tim’s right foot and began to scribble against the curling lengths of his toes, the oil causing his touch to scrape, to scratch, to slide - all the while, he watched Tim’s eyes squeeze shut, for his cheeks to balloon with air, the bristles now dragging up towards the base of Tim’s perfectly lined left row of toes …
Miller copied Andrew’s tactic; with one hand, he ran the hairbrush down Tom’s right sole, with his other hand he reached towards his left and actioned a scribble to the heel - as soon as both feet were facing a ticklish onslaught, Tom almost failed the game within the first minute, a loud, “—BLOODY!—” bursting from his grin, teeth clenching and working as a wall to hold giggles too strong to contain, “—Heh, HELL!—-” his back lifted from the seat, arms flexing helplessly against the cuffs, elbows clapping, all ten of his toes either scrunched tight or flexing hard, the hairbrush never once leaving his right foot …
“It’s unbearable, isn’t it, Spider?” Miller taunted softly, dragging the brush up, up, up, into the delicate pad beneath the big toe, “Don’t you just want to scream with laughter?—”
Tom could only gasp and nod, face hot, eyes glassy, both feet clenching inward then outward, his lips now soaked with dribble.
The Masked Henchman’s cock throbbed hard in his gloved hand as Tim’s whole body stiffened, muscles tensing in violent thrashes as Andrew zig zagged the hairbrush from left to right across Tim’s left heel - the cameras caught every stretch, every blink through sweat, zooming in on the way Tim’s toes curled and scrunched any time the hairbrush dragged closer to his arch … 07:32 … 07:31 … 07:30 …
The studio was filled with breathless wheezing, the squeaking of plastic over flesh, the huffing and panting of Tim, Andrew, Tom and Miller, but no laughter had broke, not yet, “—Fuck, FUCK, man! Aaaaaaaaaandrew, shhh, shhh, SHIT!—” Tim’s teeth sank into his upper lip, his eyes watching the hairbrush, his jaw quivering with the force of holding the hysteria inside, a wet sound escaping his throat, half-groan, half-beg, “—Pl, please—”
The Masked Henchman nearly whimpered behind his mask, his hand rubbing faster over his cock as Andrew changed rhythm, flicking the bristles over Tim’s tender arch in quick, stuttering pulses, “—ANDREW, FU-HUCK!—”, The Masked Henchman took in the sound of Tim’s shouts, the grain in his throat, the deepness of his tone - he thwap, thwap, thwapped his erection as he watched Tim’s face transform; forehead wrinkling, pink, puffy lips shaping into an ‘O’, the first hint of a laugh bubbling in his throat, “—Oh, oh my god, oh my, my fucking god—” huffed Tim, is bare soles twisting, curling, scrunching, the toe ties creaking to keep them in place …
The Masked Henchman’s masked head tilted, his hand stroking faster over himself as Tom’s squeal twisted his attention to Miller, who now fingered Tom’s left big toe whilst scrubbing the arch of his right sole - a tear or two trickled down Tom’s cheeks, his grin manic, tight, his body bouncing non stop on the seat, causing the device to rattle and shake Tim along with it - The Masked Henchman almost came when Tom arched his back and unintentionally showcased the glow of his stomach and abs to the camera, the lighting, the ceiling, the shine of his athletic shape vibrating in ticklish agony - he appeared as if he would need to laugh at any given second …
The studio evolved into a furnace of tension, perspiration, muffled groans and laughter on pause - Tom’s chest heaved, nipples erect and stiff, his smooth, lotion-soaked feet thrashing violently, ultra smooth soles glistening under the studio lights as Tim’s toes scrunched and his jaw widened, both of his narrow soles twisting in a dire attempt to escape Andrew’s touch …
… 05:47 … 05:46 … 05:45 …
The Masked Henchman’s gloved hand gripped himself tighter, drinking in the sight of the young actor’s toes, their curling and splaying soles, their thrusting hips and twisting legs, Miller’s tone changing, his voice dropping into a commanding growl that helped nudge The Masked Henchman closer to orgasm, “… It’s cute to see you try, Tom, but I will snap you in half …”
Miller’s hairbrush attacked in a fast, relentless scrub, side-to-side, left to right, bristles grinding into the slippery arch of Tom’s left sole - it happened almost instantly - Tom screamed with laughter, his head whipping side to side, his voice breaking into hoarse, high-pitched howls …
“—STOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOAAAAAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH!—” every scrub sent a violent jolt through his body, his knees buckled and thrashed, his toes clenching so tight they turned white, his feet stretching apart as sweat poured from his temples, he was barely able to catch his breath, “—YOU’RE KILLING ME, MATE!—”
“Lo, loser!” The Masked Henchman grunted, forcing his hand away from his pre cum soaked erection, voice muffled through his mask, “Round two winner, T, Timothée …”
Tim sagged in his restraints with an exhausted yet assured grin, sweat soaking his curls as he let out a whimpered, strained bellow of laughter through his nose - finally, he could let it out.
Tom’s eyes flew open, wild and disbelieving, as Miller continued to scrub his left sole even harder, his other foot still clawed at by Miller’s fingers, nails skimming the slick surface, “—IT’S DONE!—” Tom became a fury of leaping, jumping, shaking, twisting, “—I’m, I’m a LOO, LOOSER!—” he admitted, now losing his mind, his laughter erupting into high pitched, broken, delirious barks, “—WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MATE!—”
“The round is over for you,” Miller teased, “But we’re not finished …”
Across the seat, Andrew had to abide Miller’s cue - he leaned in, hairbrush clasped in hand, and descended back on Tim’s feet - the bristles scraped across the base of his left index toe, while his fingers scribbled along Tim’s right sole, shifting Tim from grinning because he had just won two rounds in a row, to grinning because he was being tickled even though the round was over …
“—YO, MAN, STOP!—” Tim’s butt lifted from the seat, his cock slapped against his stomach, Tom threw himself into his armpit and bit at his skin, “—OW, MAN, FUCK!—” he nudged Tom away with his own strength, the toe ties keeping Tim’s feet in place as Andrew scrubbed, scribbled and slid his hairbrush and fingernails over the now wet soles of Tim’s size elevens, “—WAIT, STAP, STAP, STAP, STAP, NO, NO, NOOO!—”
The Masked Henchman became transfixed once again; both young men, side by side, drenched in sweat and lotion, their feet slick and squirming, laughing uncontrollably in perfect stereo, one in a raw, pleading scream, the other in a rhythmic, breathless bellow of non stop laughter, “—NOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAH NOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH ENOUAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAAHAGH!—”, the device shook violently, the steel cuffs rattled, and every arching twist of their spines made The Masked Henchman’s pulse thunder harder as the collars around both Tom and Tim’s neck glistened under the studio lights …
Suddenly, the scrubbing stopped and the studio fell quiet, all except the thwapping of The Masked Henchman’s leather glove against his rock solid manhood …
Tim and Tom were too flustered to care, both of their heads planted back against the seat, their eyes closed, their bodies now entire coated in a sheen of exhaustion, their chests lifting, dropping, lifting, dropping as they both sat snug side by side, cocks bare and flaccid between their thighs …
Miller stood and wiped sweat away from his upper lip - he then turned and pointed at The Masked Henchmen, “If you cum, you’ll lose interest, and I need you invested, kid …” he helped Andrew to a stand and then, together, they both placed the hairbrushes back inside the suitcase of tools, “… Now, do your job, and update our viewers on the current results …”
The Masked Henchmen bobbed his knees as he squeezed his erection back behind his trousers, “Sorry, sir,” he then pressed a button on the remote, The Leaderboard updating accordingly as Tim and Tom’s attempt at catching their breath continued to fill the studio …
🎉 TIMOTHÉE - 470,000 🎉
👎🏼 TOM - 450,000 👎🏼
Tim lifted his head and glared at Miller, only one word able to leave his mouth during that current moment:
“Cunt.”
Miller’s fingers rummaged through the array of sinister tools within the suitcase as Tim decided to face the lingering curiosity that refused to fade away.
“Andrew … Man … Say something …” he wheezed, soles still tingling, “… What do they have on you? Why are you—”
Andrew’s eyes flicked toward him but said nothing, lips drawn in a tight line.
“—Leave him, Wolf …” Miller interrupted smoothly, his tone dripping with amusement, “He’s been silenced for a reason,” he then pulled out two small, sleek black boxes, no larger than a fist, with a short antenna and a single circular light on their face, “Ah,” he held them up in each hand like they were relics, “I believe you know what these little toys are, Spider …”
Tom’s curled his fists into balls as his armpits continued to shimmer with sweat, “What is it with you lot and bloody nicknames?—”
“—The Hysteria Monitor …” Miller announced, “Another piece of high tech magic produced by Mr. Maguire … Featured in Game Six and made to monitor your hysteria …”
Tim tongued the inside of his cheek, “No shit, sherlock …”
Miller paused and swallowed down the need to shove an electric toothbrush up Tim’s ass, “The silver cuffs,” he cleared his throat, “Locked around your wrists, they monitor your pulse, like I previously explained. The more hysterical you get, the quicker the light on these,” Miller shook his hands, The Hysteria Monitors glistening for the cameras, “Shift from green, to red. Whoevers light flashes red first, loses the round.”
Tom watched Tim in shock as he confidently scoffed, “So, it’s the yellow balloon all over again?” Tim teased, “Running out of ideas, you old fuck?—”
Miller’s grin turned into a sneer, “Oh! But here’s the twist, Wolf … In this round, you choose where we tickle you, out of a list of hot spots we know to be your most ticklish areas …” Tim and Tom exchanged a look - the rules were absurd, humiliating, and yet the choice filled the room with a heavy, forbidden thrill as The Masked Henchmen watched on, the cameras recorded, they live streamed, the world tuned in … “Spider,” Miller teased, “Take your pick; your big toes, your armpits, and that perky, round backside of yours. Which will it be?”
Tom swallowed hard, his ass cheeks clenching as he glanced down to the delves of each underarm, “… My pits … There’s no way you’re touching my arse, and my big toes, pfft,” he nodded at The Hysteria Monitor, “That gadget will just explode if you go for them …”
Miller’s grin sharpened, “And you, Wolf? I know the spots that make you squeal: index toes, armpits … Or that tempting little taint …”
Tim licked his lips and exhaled through his nose, “…Index toes,” he offered his most sensitive spot as a sacrifice; if he lost this round and became the most hysterical first, allowing Tom to win, he would still have two rounds under his belt, “… Go big or go home,” he smirked.
Miller snapped his fingers, totally aware of the ticklee’s game planning and already a few steps ahead, “Delicious choices,” as Andrew retrieved a pair of black grooming gloves from inside the suitcase, their palms lined with short, soft rubber nubs - he flexed his fingers, Tom’s face twisting with dread.
Miller placed both Hysteria Monitors on the floor so that they faced each ticklee and simply licked his own fingers, coating them in thick layers of whiskey stained saliva, “Nothing beats natural tools,” he said, voice low and sultry, “Especially for those glorious underarms, Tim …”
Tim jolted, a perplexed scrunch of rage burrowing at the top of his nose, “—That’s not what I—”
—The Masked Henchman peered up at The Leaderboard as the countdown began: 10:00 … 09:59 … 09:58 …
Andrew knelt at Tom’s feet, the scent of lotion still clinging to the air, Tim’s feet also poking out from the stocks between each of Tom’s feet - but before Andrew could make a start, Tom addressed him, “Mate …” Tom felt Tim’s panic beside him as he watched Andrew near anywhere but his underarms, “… You must’ve not been listening …”
Andrew breathed in Tom’s words and forced a smile into the depths of his chest, doing as he had been ordered to do - obey, obliterate, obsess - he began slow, just lightly stroking Tom’s big toes with the soft rubber nubs, rolling them along the sensitive pads in small, deliberate circles …
Tom exploded into laughter immediately, torso leaping forwards, his feet squirming and writhing beneath the grooming gloves as Andrew focused on both big toes, “—OI! I sss, sssaid my armpits! I said, MY, armpits! OI, OI, OI!—”, Tom’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as Andrew applied more pressure, “—NOAHAHAHA! NOAHAHAHAHA! STOAHAHAHA, STOAHAHAHAHAHA, STOAHAHAHAHAH!—”, rubbing just the big toe pads, then gently pinching and rolling them, the nubs scraping deliciously, causing Tom to thrash his upper body in a manic twist, his spine arching, ass bouncing, his hysteria climbing fast, “—OIHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAH! OIAAAAAHHAHAHAHAHA! OIAAAAAHAHAHAHAH!—” …
Only inches beside Tom, Miller moved behind Tim and drew a single, glistening fingertip along the deepest part of Tim’s right underarm - a thrash came from Tim, then an attempt to punch upward, but the touch persisted in being slow, delicate, the motion tracing a deliberate spiral, a swirl of sensation that made Tim try to punch up once more, his eyes squeezing shut, a fierce grin stretching his lips apart, “—You’re gonn, mnn! Pay for this you, you shithead!—”
Miller felt his arousal grow behind his trousers, “We knew wherever you suggested would be second to your most ticklish spot … You see, Wolf, we’ve been doing this for quite some time—”, he switched to the left underarm, using two fingers now, skimming them back and forth across the taut skin, just enough to make Tim’s shoulders jerk and his teeth clench; Tim’s chest raised up high, nipples pinpoint sharp, his armpits completely waiting to be taken, currently teased by someone he could only describe as a monster, and monstrous did Miller soon become; his fingers clawed, his pressure dug, deeper he ventured, blowing Tim’s mind within an instant …
Tim’s face crumpled instantly, his mouth falling open in a silent scream before the laughter tore out of him like a storm, “—Oh damnoh-DAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAMN! DAHAHAHAHAHAHAMN! DAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAMN!—” his body twirled, elbows clapping, his face became soaked with sudden distress as Miller violated both of Tim’s armpits, luring out Tim’s hysteria effortlessly, “—YOU DAHAHAHAHAHMN BEAST, MAN!—”
The device rattled like it might tear itself from the floor as Tom splintered closer to pure hysteria - just as he had been briefed, he started to dial the notch on the tickle torment - one hand now gripped Tom’s right big toe, dragging the textured fingers of the grooming glove over the tender pad in a rhythm that was playful yet mindblowing for Tom, the other hand stretched forward, delving into the hollow of Tom’s exposed right underarm, fingers curling and stroking the smooth, damp skin in feather-light patterns.
Tom’s back arched violently, his head whipping from side to side at such speed his face was a blur, “—STOAAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOAAHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEASE STOAAAAHAAHHAHAHA!—” his laughter was a raw, uncontrollable torrent, it was endless, non stop, barely a breath between each shout-like expel of mania, “—STOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAASTOAAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHASTOAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAH!—” his bare thighs slapped against the seat as he tried to twist his body away, his floppy cock flapped and bounced across his legs, his eyes wide, unblinking, watching Andrew the entire time as the sensory overload drove him past language, “—MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH STOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAH!—” tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, his chest heaved, lungs fighting to keep up with the unending waves of laughter, “—NOAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOAAAAHAHAHAHAHA STOAAAHAHAAHAHAHAHA!—” he tried to inhale and only managed to heave for half a second, gasping for oxygen before another shriek of hilarity burst free, “—NOAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!—”
Boop … Boop … Boop … Tom’s Hysteria Monitor beeped from green to amber …
Positioned behind Tim, Miller knew he would need additional support when it came to Tim’s index toes; he flashed a quick nod to The Masked Henchmen and said words that caused Tim to whimper during each writhe, “Bring in the back up …”
The studio doors creaked open, and Tim’s hazy, sweat-drenched eyes widened in disbelief.
Bieber.
He shuffled into the room in full clown regalia; oversized shoes, silk, red boiler suit hanging loose, a painted smile smudged and dripping from sweat and failure - his eyes were filled with pure resentment and horror - he didn’t need to say a word, no verbal explanation or mask was necessary; his entire posture screamed that he had been forced into this, his ultimatum …
… Win, and you never hear from us again. Lose, and you become The Clown …
Tim shook his head furiously, his sweat-soaked curls flinging droplets across his bare shoulders, “Jus, Justin! What the fuck have they—” Tim slid and wriggled beneath Miller’s fingers as they continued to scribble within each underarm, “—Get the fuck outta here!—”
“—Clown,” Miller ordered lazily, “His index toes are yours. Make him dance for me …”
Justin hesitated for a fraction of a second, then dropped to his knees at the stocks, his enormous red shoes squeaking against the floor - his hands shook as he reached for Tim’s bare, gleaming soles, the oil from earlier catching the studio lights - he paused, fingertips hovering, humiliated beyond words - the Justin before this level of failure would have considered annihilating everyone here with verbal insults, smacks to the face, a spit in the mouth, but the Justin of now, the ‘Clown’ as he was now formally contracted as, well, he just did as he was told …
“—NOW, Clown!—” Miller snapped.
Clown’s fingers made contact, tracing just below each of Tim’s index toes, where they then began to scribble the base, scratch along the tender length, pinch and rub the fleshy, soft pad; Tim’s feet immediately started to thrash and pull away, but the toe ties always kept his index toes below Clown’s touch, causing Tim to thrust his entire torso forward and scream, “—FUCKING STOP, JUSTIN!—” his legs kicked against the stocks, “—JUSTIN-NO-JUSTIN!—”, his toes flexing and curling violently, trying to outrun the crawling sensation, each toe tie squeaking as Miller dug into each underarm with relentless force, Clown using all five fingernails of each hand to scrape and scratch at Tim’s index toes, “—NO! NO! NO! NO! JUSTIN-NO! NO! NO! NO! MY STOMACH HURTS JUSTIN-NO-man-MAN!—” Tim’s head spun, sweat pooled beneath his ass, his feet squirmed and created shapes unlike any he had made before, “—YOU GOTTA STOP, STOP, STOP IT, STAP, STAP IT, STAP? STAP! JUSTINSTAP. STAP…” he was breathless now, hysteria rising, teeth snapping at Miller’s hands, “… SS, SSSS, JUSTINSTAP!—”
Clown, swallowing his own humiliation, persisted in doing what he was now contracted to do for the rest of his life - blowing minds through tickle torment. Once the star of Game Seven, where he had been mercilessly tormented by The Ringmaster, Clown had become the very thing he had feared: not only the instrument of laughter, but its punchline, the ultimate joke. After all the cussing, the bullying of Logan, the desperate above-it-all arrogance, Clown’s story had ended in pure humiliation - reduced to a simple, living embarrassment.
That embarrassment was enough to send Tim’s Hysteria Monitor screaming from green to amber, boop! … boop! … he could not lose, the alarm bells in his brain reminding him that he had earned a safeword whilst tested on stage - if he were to shout that out now, he’d at least be given mercy?
“—NEW YORK!—” Tim screamed, the safe word bellowing out of his mouth with such strength and volume that his neck and throat thickened, “—NEW YORK! NEW YORK!—”
Andrew slumped over the stocks, his gloved hands slipping from Tom’s armpit and right big toe - reaching at awkward angles had left his arms aching, and his forced silence, louder than any scream, made his quiet droop over Tom’s feet feel deafeningly sad.
Tim felt a wave of relief as Miller’s fingers finally slid from his underarms, Justin’s touch leaving his hyper sensitive index toes - the attack had only been momentary, but it had been enough to shatter his control, plunging him into a realm of ungovernable hysteria - inside, he berated himself: all this time, he had followed Maxwell’s teachings, leaned on his experience with Armie - for what? To give in, like a damn pussy …
“I forgot to mention what happens when you use your safeword, Tim,” Miller tidied up Tim’s curls by parting his hair with his fingertips, “Sure, the tickling stops … But it also means Tom gets the ten thousand points …”
The Leaderboard updated as Tim closed his eyes and dropped his head over his stomach, frustrated at his own miscalculation.
🎉 TOM — 460,000 🎉
👎🏼 TIMOTHÉE — 470,000 👎🏼
Tom breathed in quick through flared nostrils, his chest shimmering and glistening with perspiration, “Sorry, mate,” he managed to say to Tim.
“Round Three winner,” The Masked Henchmen declared, his boner tight in his trousers, his hands no longer allowed to touch it, “Tom Holland …”
Tom was now catching up. Tim was beginning to slip.
Miller watched them both, the moment hanging in the air, raw and electric - a sudden shift in power, an unspoken test of friendship.
“Will the Spider bite the Wolf,” Miller drawled, “Or will the Wolf devour the Spider?” He grinned, “Time for the penultimate round … “
The sudden click of metal and the release of the leather cuffs caught both Tim and Tom off guard …
Their arms, numb from strain, fell heavily to their sides, leaving their hands dangling for a beat before they instinctively flexed their fingers - Tom blinked in disbelief while Tim simply rotated his wrists slowly, cautious and calculating - for the first time since they were wheeled out on stage, their hands were free.
Andrew and Clown stood silently nearby, spectral in their stillness, like sentinels waiting for orders as The Masked Henchman approached, his leather boots thudding softly on the studio floor - in his leather gloved hands he held out two glasses of iced water to Tim and Tom.
Tom, polite as ever, even within circumstances as extraordinary as these, took the glass and expressed his gratitude before taking a sip, “Cheers, mate …” his thirst was stronger than his sense, as proved by Tim, who paused before placing his hands anywhere near the refreshment.
Miller could read Tim like a book, “It’s not drugged, Wolf …” he smirked, un-doing his bow tie and loosening the tightness of his collar.
Tim took the glass slowly, his eyes never leaving Miller - he sipped in small, precise mouthfuls, swallowing deliberately, his body still tense even in this moment of reprieve - when he lowered the glass, his lips glistened with water, “Why are you being nice?” He finally asked, his voice rough from laughter and screams.
Miller dropped the bow tie into the suitcase and shrugged off his tuxedo jacket, “I’m not being nice,” he said matter-of-factly, “I’m being realistic. You both need hydration if you’re going to sweat like this. It’s a mere fact,” the way he said it, so casual, so precise, made everyone in the room’s stomach twist: he wasn’t kind in the slightest, he was a scientist tending to his subjects.
“Now,” Miller continued, his voice filling the studio, “The penultimate round. Fifteen minutes. You two—”, he gestured to Tim and Tom, who were still catching their breath, “—Will use your own hands … To tickle each other …”
Tom’s jaw fell open,“—You what?—” as Tim clenched his teeth and refrained from gulping.
“You heard me,” Miller snapped, “You’ll tickle each other, bare skin on bare skin. At the end of the round, we—” he swept his hand toward Andrew, Clown, The Masked Henchman, even the cameras, “—Will vote who earns the ten thousand points. Not just for who laughs the most … But for everything; who’s the most desperate, who’s the most sadistic, who deserves it …”
Tim sat in stunned silence, his fingers curling into slow fists. Tom shook his head, damp hair clinging to his temples.
“This is …” Tom exhaled, fighting for words, “… Mental …”
“—It’s survival …” Tim corrected with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “… They want the world to see how desperate we are …” he mumbled, “… This round isn’t about who wins, it’s about how we win …”
Miller clicked his fingers, “—Bingo!—” he rolled up the sleeves to his shirt as he paced from one end of the stocks to the other, “—Those who are viewing this will be shown a number on the TV screen that they can text, casting either Ticklee 000 as the winner of this round, or Ticklee 002 …” he raised his eyebrows at The Masked Henchmen, “… Kid, what are our current viewing figures?”
The Masked Henchmen checked a nearby monitor and delivered his answer with a muffled voice behind his mask, “… Fifteen million network viewership, over seventeen million viewing the live stream, and growing …”
The air was charged, humid with sweat and fear, the smell of lotion and adrenaline heavy - Tim and Tom’s breathing became the only sound for a moment - huff, huff, huff …. - ragged and uneven - Tom’s hands trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the impossible weight of choice - could he bring himself to torment Tim like that? How would Tim retaliate? With so many people watching this on live television, would it even be worth trying to win, to be free in a world where this ‘event’ would overshadow him forever?
No matter how hard he tried, Tim could not force his paranoid, anxious mind to twist this into a positive: he and Tom were probably two of the most famous celebrities on the planet anyway, now they were and would forever be infamous …
Miller leaned forward, voice dropping to a purr that managed to pierce the heavy air, “Fifteen minutes. Convince me … And the entire fucking planet … That you deserve to win …”
The studio’s lights seemed to tighten around them, cameras hovered closer, silent and predatory - Andrew watched, unblinking, dealing with his own levels of shock, while Clown shifted in his circus costume, his painted face creased with some deep, uncomfortable thrill.
Tom licked his lips, his voice cracking as he finally whispered, “… How is this even happening? …”
Tim leaned closer to him, his green eyes glowing, almost amused, despite the fire in his chest, “Go for my upper ribs,” he whispered, “You win, we’re all out …”
Tom glanced down to the area Tim suggested, “… But …” he hated how, in his mind, he had already created a future not worth fighting for, “… Even if I do get us all out, mate, what’s even the point, now that everyone knows what we’ve—”
—A countdown appeared on The Leaderboards screen, “Round Four begins …” The Masked Henchmen adjusted the cameras, “… Now …” fifteen minutes started to tick away: 15:00 … 14:59 … 14:58 …
To Tim’s surprise, there was no hesitation or playful preamble from Tom - instead, Tom surged forward with a suddenness that startled Andrew - there was nothing delicate about him, he was solid, built from stunts and regimen, from gym floors and strict diets - he knew he had power within his frame and now would be when he would use it, all ten of his fingers jabbing into Tim’s upper ribs as if he were trying to claw inside of him …
Tim’s slim body flared with resistance, spine arching, hands flying to block, “—GUH!—”, but it was like trying to fend off an avalanche of strength; Tom’s fingers dug in, hard, squeezing in erratic pulses, thumbs working between each rib, his grip purposeful, wild yet strategic, “—GUHUH! GAHAHA! GRR, mnn, grrr, yo! GRUHUHAHA!—”, laughter burst from Tim’s throat like a rupture, “—HUHAHAHA! GRUHAHAHAHA, yo, yo, TOM! MNN, GRR, AHAHAHA! AHAHAHA! Mnn, hnnnuff, mnn!—”, he barked, struggling against the laughter as he tried to snatch hold of Tom’s hands, unable to jab into Tom’s own sides, both of their legs still splayed, ankles still locked, toe ties still tight around each toe, leaving only their bodies from the knee upward able to writhe in the fight for scramble …
As Clown, The Masked Henchmen, Andrew and over thirty two million people watched on, Miller arrived at an unexpected thought - he was meant to be the observer, the mastermind, the judge, but the way Tim flailed - the flushed skin, the bouncing butt, the flopping cock, the hoarse breath between the shouts - it was erotic in ways Miller could not describe … Far more than he’d admit aloud - watching Tom, tight-armed, smirking now, shoulders rolling with effort … It was enough to—
—Miller’s trousers suddenly became too tight for the growing girth now presenting itself over his thigh - his hand reached for the hairbrush resting inside the silver suitcase - he snatched hold of it, hungry, ravenous - he sank to a kneel in front of Tim’s feet and began to scrub at his left sole, the bristles suddenly biting into hyper sensitive skin - he had to have him, he just had to …
Tim hurtled forwards with wide eyes and an open mouth, “—MILLER, NO! NO! NO!—”, he roared, his voice bellowing through the room, equal parts panic and fury, “—YO! YO, PLEASE!—”, his toes scrunched, his foot automatically thrashed away with every scrub, but the toe ties held his foot tight as the brush scrubbed fast and firm, “—MILLER, PLEASE!—”, Tim bucked, howled, nearly choked on his own laugh, his hands trying to fight off Tom, his bulging eyes now watching Andrew move forward …
Seeing Miller drop to his knees was signal enough - the grooming gloves were still on - all Andrew had to do was react to his own instinct, and obey … He went for Tim’s right foot - with expert skill, he began dragging his clawed fingertips down the sole in long, dragging scratches in what had immediately transformed into a form of gang tickling …
The reaction was instant, “—NO PLEASE! NO WAIT! NO STOP!—”, every rake sent Tim’s foot into wild spasms, the toe ties creaking with each thrash, “—STOP, I’M FUCKING, UNDER ATTACK!—”, now six hands were on him; two on each foot, and two over his ribs, “—STOAHAHA! ST, STOAHAHAP, WHAHAHAT ABOUT—”, Tim thrashed in place, the tickling overwhelming, his voice cracking from the strain, “—YO, GUYS, WHAT ABOUT TOM!—”
Tom could not help but grin, “—Take it, mate!—”, he was enjoying this - the grooming glove and hairbrush at Tim’s feet had reduced Tim to a weak shambles of shrieks and twists, almost allowing Tom full access to his hips, waist, sides, his fingers straight and jabbing into little pockets of flesh that made Tim automatically fold into himself, then unfold, then bounce and jump, “—Come on, give me those points!—”, Tim had become Tom’s toy, and the ten thousand points were starting to feel very much in reach, far sooner than Tom had expected—
“—Clown!—”, Miller called without looking away, “—Why are you standing there like a fucking scarecrow? Do something!—”
Clown blinked, stunned like a child caught staring, unsure whether to join in tormenting Tim or to focus on Tom, “I …” he realised he was speaking, something he was briefed before entry to not do, “—Sorry, I was just …”
“—MOVE!—”, Miller snarled, amongst Tim’s shrieks and Tom’s huffs, the device rattling in the background as Clown scrambled on the spot, picking up a second hairbrush and approaching cautiously, unsure where to start …
His eyes landed on Tom’s feet - vulnerable, untouched during this round, toes always clenched, but Tom’s focus wasn’t on he himself, it was all on Tim … The surprise would impress Miller for certain, and now that’s all Clown’s life was about, impress, impress, impress …
Tom jerked, startled, twisting back as his left foot swiped inward, “—OI!—”, Clown’s hairbrush only making a gentle impact with his heel, but before he could inflict another scrub, Miller yelled more orders, treating Clown like he was some dumb, pathetic assistant.
“—Get Tim’s armpits, you fool!—” Miller demanded, his gaze beaming at Tim’s feet as they curled and stretched, “—This little bitch deserves to sweat tears!—”
Justin stumbled as he circled the device, dropping the hairbrush and arriving behind Tim - he reached for Tim’s right wrist, Tim fighting him, eyes blazing, but Justin, in a rare moment of resolve, caught the wrist, yanked it up, and buried his fingers deep into the hairless delve of Tim’s right underarm …
Tim screamed, “—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!—”, it wasn’t a shriek, it was a sound, full-bodied, torn from the gut, it rattled the air, “—NO! DON’T! FUCKSTOP-PLEASE!—”, but the boy who had once been Justin the loser and was now a Clown, now had purpose - he tickled with frantic fingers, desperate to impress, desperate to belong …
“—Strap him back down!—” Miller ordered, panting now, the bulge in his trousers obscene as Justin obeyed, grunting and picking up his own layer of sweat as he successfully grabbed Tim’s wrists and forced them back above his head, fighting with his punches and pulls to eventually click both steel cuffs into place … Now, there was nothing to stop Tom …
Tom leaned forward, slow like the Spider he had been nicknamed as, lowering his face toward Tim’s left armpit, his breath touching the tips of the thick curls of armpit hair, his mind reclaiming the things he had learned during The Games, the way Joshua could barely see straight during Game Eight when Tom had decided to use his tongue instead of his fingers …
Tim lost all control as he felt Tom’s tongue press into his underarm, “—WHAT! WHAHAHAHAHAHAHAT THAHAHAHAHAHAHA FUHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHACK MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAN!—” his limbs flailed within their confines, his voice bouncing against the ceiling as Tom licked again, and then nibbled, and then licked some more, “—FUHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHACKING GEHAHAHAHAHAHAT OUAHAHAHAHAHAHATTA THERE!—” on the other side of the stocks, Miller and Andrew were now frenzied, scrubbing and clawing at Tim’s soles like possessed men whilst Clown’s fingernails were fully focused on Tim’s right armpit, Tom’s tongue claiming the left …
Tim was being consumed, “—PLEASE, SOMEBODY!—”, he couldn’t scream fast enough, couldn’t breathe in before the next round of hysterical, manic laughter tore it all back out, “—STOP IT’S IT’S IT’S TOO MUCH!—” saliva boiled at the corners of his mouth, his head snapped from side to side, his cheeks hummed pink, his eyes watering, maybe someone watching this could help? “—HELP ME, HELP ME, HELP ME!—” his experiences with Armie, his training with Maxwell, it all fizzled into ash and blew away into the studio air along with his breath - nothing could have prepared him for this, and nothing would save him from this either, except …
… After a full round of non stop gang tickling, the timer reached zero and The Masked Henchmen raised his right hand, “—-Round Four is over …”
Miller dropped the hairbrush and snatched hold of the foot he had tormented - he closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of sweat and pressed his lips up against Tim’s toes as Andrew fell back, grooming gloves now departing Tim’s other foot.
Tom wiped his mouth clean of drool, Tim’s armpit soaked with the remains of Tom’s mouth - Clown stepped back, his own fingertips damp from the wet insides of Tim’s other underarm - the studio was filled with panting, huffing, coughing, as Tim sat wrists tight above his head, his ribs decorated in tiny pinch marks, his lips swollen, his throat dry …
Tom scoffed as it dawned on him that he had dodged a round entirely, besides one slight rub of the hairbrush; he looked to Tim, went to say sorry, even readied the words with pursed lips, but the ‘player’ of the game that had now grown within him, the individual that Tim seemed keen to see win, stepped out of the shadows and instead said nothing.
Miller stood with a wince, his erection tight behind the stretch of his trousers, “Time to take the vote …” he raised his right hand, “I vote for Tim,” he announced proudly as his shadow blanketed Tim and the stocks, “Because this …” Miller said, gesturing to the boy who had once been the untouchable front-runner, “Was the first time I saw the mighty Timothée Chalamet reduced to absolute shambled. All season long, he’s been icy, short, a breath away from unbeatable, and then this … Finally. He became unrecognisable. He became art. That round was … “
Miller knelt down and trailed his fingers beneath the soft, fleshy lengths of the toes that made up Tim’s left foot, “ … The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen …”
Tim inhaled, eyes squeezed shut, foot twisting away so quickly the stocks clanked.
Quiet as ever, Andrew stepped forward with grace that felt ghostly - he hadn’t spoken since The Final Game began, but now he had to, “I vote for Tom,” he whispered, simply turning away and stepping back.
Tom’s lips lifted into an awkward smile, “Cheers, mate …”
They were even - for now - Clown stepped forwards, moving nervously, his shoulders hunched - his eyes flickered between Tom and Tim like a dog trying to predict its master’s mood, “Uh … I vote for … For Tom …” he muttered, the only reason he could think of being: “He wins, we’re all free. And that … That’s something.”
Miller looked at him, unimpressed but not surprised - onevote for Tim, two votes for Tom …
All eyes turned to the final figure standing silently at the back.
The Masked Henchman stepped forward and cast his vote, “… Tim,” his voice was muffled by certain, “I agree with Miller …” he adjusted the girth between his legs, “… That was fucking hot …”
Now the votes were tied - a draw, a deadlock - Miller’s eyes lit up with something close to glee; he turned dramatically to the camera, to the red recording light still blinking, still live, “And now … The decision goes to them …” he gestured grandly to the invisible multitudes watching from behind the veil, to the masked audience packed into The Event Hall, to the live-streamers in their bedrooms, lounges, and darkened basements, to every pair of eyes staring at the agony of two bound boys, watching them claw and scream their way through this Final Game, “… The audience will cast the deciding vote. Our Masked Analysts are monitoring the results as we speak …”
There was a beat of silence, and then another, as Tim opened his eyes and Tom acknowledged how easily he could feel Tim’s heart beat as it pounded with such strength …
Then the Masked Henchman stepped toward the central monitor, his hand hovering over the control panel as numbers, bars, and colour-coded vote percentages flickered on the glass screen - data gathered from around the world, now culminating in a single percentage, “Final audience result,” the Masked Henchman announced, cold and neutral, “Tom 51%, Tim 49% …”
Miller stiffened as Tim’s head turned towards Tom, a sincere grin twisting with glee …
🎉 TOM — 470,000 🎉
👎🏼 TIMOTHÉE — 470,000 👎🏼
Tom chuckled and raised both eyebrows, “If I win the next round …” The Masked Henchmen took Tom’s wrists and cuffed them back above his head, “… I win it all, we’re, we’re out of here?”
Miller clenched his teeth and turned away, his eyes seething with frustration as he heard Tim say the words, “ … We’ll all be free …”
“The Final Round,” Miller said, “And it all boils down to truth …” he turned to the boys as Andrew and Clown picked out a white feather each from the silver suitcase and made their way to the device, “One question each. Tell the truth, you win The Games … Lie, and your future with The House of White Feathers is sealed forever.”
Andrew stood at Tom’s feet, Justin stood at Tim’s - both held hairbrushes - wide, stiff-bristled, with rubber grips tipped with massage lotion …
Miller gestured at the cuffs locking their wrists above their heads, “Those will tell me if you’re lying. A little nod to Game Nine, you remember that, don’t you, Clown?”
Clown closed his eyes and lowered his head as Miller gave he and Andrew a slight nod.
Andrew pressed the bristles into Tom’s left sole and began to scrub - short, hard strokes over the stretched arch - Tom’s reaction was immediate, uncontrolled - his head jolted back, hips jerking against the restraints, toes straining as though they could break the leather binding …
Justin followed suit with Tim’s right sole - his strokes were faster, tighter, dragging from the heel to the ball in cruel repetition - Tim’s response was sharper, more defensive, his body arching as if he could somehow pull his foot away …
The sound of bristles rasping over tender skin, the rattling of the stocks, the squeak of the toe ties and the breathless wheezing from Tom and Tim’s throat filled the studio as Miller crouched down in front of Tom.
“Do you want to win?” He asked.
Tom’s breathing was already ragged, feet thrashing as Andrew’s brush worked mercilessly along the base of his toes, “—Yes!—” he gasped, desperate to get the word out between groans of discomfort, “—More than anything!—”, Tom swore under his breath but couldn’t focus, “—Bloody fuck!—”, Andrew had now shifted to his right sole, scrubbing in deep circles that made his foot writhe into a toe point.
Miller stepped to Tim, the hairbrush on his sole had not stopped for a second.
“Do you love Armie?” He asked.
Tim’s gaze fixed forward, jaw tight, body sweating from the relentless tickle torture - he knew he had to lie, to lose, so that Tom could win and set everyone free …
“… Yes—”, he growled.
The Masked Henchmen looked closer at the monitor and held onto his ear piece, “Sir, the results are in …”
Miller could feel his heart pounding in his throat, “Scrub harder …” he ordered Andrew and The Clown.
With his back facing the ticklee’s, Miller could hear the hairbrushes at work, their intensity increasing; Tom’s cackles arrived as thunderous shouts, his body slamming against the device, as Tim expressed doubts, exhaustion and strain in the form of breathless pants and whimpered grunts …
Miller raised his right hand, pointing his index finger into the studio ceiling.
…
The scrubbing paused, the physical responses stopped straight away; Tom and Tim looked forwards, eyes wide, waiting …
Miller turned around slowly.
“The winner is …”
-